


Carmina Figurata

by Reynier, secace



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Catholicism, Comedy, Gen, i guess, nothing like. happens, rated m only for a lot of dumb jokes, we read a 27 page article about carolingian monks and then immediately wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23859136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/pseuds/Reynier, https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: “I mean, it’s unbelievable,” Galahad said, pacing back and forth.“Huh,” said Perceval, thinking privately that being an apostle had been delightful and it had all gone according to his memory of scripture.“Being Jesus isn’t just about how many friends you can bone onstage in front of your family. Being Jesus is about— about love, and being tied up, and, and…” Galahad floundered, trying to think of other defining aspects of his religion and coming up somewhat short. “And being graphically murdered but in an aesthetic way.”
Relationships: like 12 that are mentioned in one line but zero that are important
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Carmina Figurata

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a sequel to my passion play fic, but this one rey (gawain_in_green) and I wrote together and had too much fun with, because we read an article about how horny Carolingian monks were and thought it was so funny we had to write fanfiction about it. so have 4000 words of sex jokes
> 
> a penitential was a book of sins for priests to use as a manual for judging the cases of penitents which was eventually banned for being rather more like extremely detailed guides on how to commit the coolest and sexiest sins
> 
> shout out to Alcuin of York for being a total chad and dark shoutout to cs lewis for being a loser
> 
> EVERYONE read this article it's incredible : 
> 
> Schipper, William. “Secretive Bodies and Passionate Souls: Transgressive Sexuality Among the Carolingians.” Conjunctions of Mind, Soul and Body from Plato to the Enlightenment, 2014, pp. 173–199., doi:10.1007/978-94-017-9072-7_10.

“I mean, it’s unbelievable,” Galahad said, pacing back and forth.

“Huh,” said Perceval, thinking privately that being an apostle had been delightful and it had all gone according to his memory of scripture.

“Being Jesus isn’t just about how many friends you can bone onstage in front of your family.”

Perceval, who despite the image of naive Catholicism had grown up in the woods and thus was familiar with certain aspects of life, was about to say that Galahad had a warped concept of what constituted “boning” but thought better of it. “Yeah?”

“Being Jesus is about— about  _ love _ , and  _ being tied up _ , and, and…” Galahad floundered, trying to think of other defining aspects of his religion and coming up somewhat short. “And being  _ graphically murdered but in an aesthetic way. _ ”

“I sort of liked the new ending. It wasn’t so sad.”

To an observer, Galahad’s sudden teleportation across the room would have very obviously violated the laws of physics. But there were no observers save God, who has His secrets like the rest of us.

“It wasn’t  _ sad _ ?” hissed Galahad into Perceval’s face. “It wasn’t  _ sad _ ? Catholicism is  _ about  _ being  _ sad _ , Perceval. That’s why I cry three times a day. For the religion.”

“Are you… okay?”

Galahad straightened, or at least made a passable attempt at it. “I am the foremost among God’s lambs,” he said, “I feel the hand of Jesus on me every day and I bless the Lord for it.”

“Hand of Jesus? Uh,” Percival frowned, “I think seminal emissions are a sin, maybe.”

There were no words in the English language or indeed the fine tongue of the angels to describe the expression on Galahad’s face. “Sin,” he spat. “I’ll show them what sin is. I will explain to them in graphic detail, with annotated drawings, what sin is. So that they stop doing it.”

“Ooh, you should get Lancelot to do the drawings. He drew a dog for me once and it was really good,” Perceval said, trying to be helpful.

This was the wrong thing to say. Knights more socially savvy than Perceval had learned by now that bringing up his father in casual conversation was never the way to Galahad’s heart, and this pattern held true now. “My father,” he said stiffly, “is the greatest sinner of them all. I know this because one time I found a letter that— that northern heathen whose name I shall not profane myself by saying— had sent him. It was very instructive. I prayed for five days to recover.”

Perceval grimaced, sensing his error too late. But his sudden awareness of the chill in the room, which centred on the saintly form of Galahad, buzzing with indignation, did not in any way change his own nature. “I thought The Devil was the greatest sinner.”

Galahad seemed to check himself and remember that he was, in fact, discussing his own flesh and blood. “Well,” he said lamely, “according to all available evidence, the Devil taught him all he knows.”

“Oh.” Perceval thought about this for a moment. He still wasn’t sure entirely what Galahad was planning, but wanted desperately to help. “Well, maybe I could do the pictures then.”

“Uh…” Bors flicked his eyes from Perceval to Galahad and back again. “Uh, I’m not entirely sure what’s going on here, but I don’t think either of you have got any good ideas anywhere in your brain, and I’m a little worried this is going to wind up with someone asking to shadow Tristan on his day-to-day.”

They both frowned at this prospect, Galahad’s investment in the Quest To Purge All Sin From Camelot deflating a bit at the thought of any Tristan-related activities.

“He’s not in the Round Table.” Percival pointed out, a point Galahad immediately latched onto.

“Right! He’s not from the table, he’s from Cornwall, so there’s no saving Tristan. We focus on the rest of them.”

“I mean,” Bors said, as though he were weighing the matter, “he’s not in the Round Table, but he is  _ on  _ it quite frequently.”

“So are glasses of wine, we aren’t trying to educate them.” Galahad refused to let go of this excuse, mind already on other things, namely all the drawings of saints tied up they were going to have to produce.

Bors had a one-track mind and today it had settled on a recurring grievance of his. “Generally he’s on his back on the Round Table, from the times he hasn’t locked the door and I’ve gone back to get my sandwich that I left at my chair and I’ve walked in on him making very incorrect use of the Siege Perilous. I don’t even know how he got in. Maybe the window.”

“Maybe, if you want to focus on that, Bors, you can do Tristan,” suggested Percival who, God bless him, still had no idea what they were doing.

“I don’t want to do Tristan,” said Bors, mildly irritated, “I really wish other people would  _ stop  _ doing Tristan right in front of my lunch meat and with quite so much use of nearly being set on fire as an aphrodisiac.”

“Well, those were words,” said Galahad, who hadn’t been listening to any of them. “But we have more important matters to which we must attend.”

Perceval, who had to his immense regret been both listening  _ and  _ understanding, nodded enthusiastically at this promising proposal to talk about anything else. 

“So, first,” said Galahad, “we must enumerate the sins.” Upon seeing the others’ blank gazes, he waved his hands. “We are making a penitential? Yes? A penitential book for the betterment of our friends and family?”

“Ah,” said Bors, who was familiar with and unfond of the penitential and, more recently, attempts to improve his friends and family. 

“That sounds fun.” Percival smiled encouragingly for Galahad to go on.

“It’s not  _ fun _ ,” said Galahad pedantically. “It’s  _ educational.  _ To recap: we must first enumerate the sins. What are the sins, everyone?”

’Everyone’ looked at each other.

“Well. Gawain ruined the play by being— uh, Gawain,” Bors said. 

Percival, who thought the play was nice and so was Gawain, but recognized Galahad was on a tear, said nothing.

“Ah,” said Galahad. He had produced a whiteboard and Expo marker from somewhere despite the fact that neither would be invented for another one and a half millennia. “But being Gawain is not in and of itself a sin. If we relate the  _ sin  _ and the  _ nature _ , we come across a problem of faith. If man is fundamentally unsalvageable, why should he  _ struggle _ ? Why should he bleed? For fun?”

Perceval wasn’t quite grasping the theology, but had caught on that ’fun’ was a bad word. “No? He doesn’t?”

“He does,” said Bors helpfully. “Have you ever hung out with Gawain over a pint or two? I think there’s a lot of bleeding for fun in his life.”

Galahad, in the most self-righteous voice he could muster which, from Galahad, was very, said “No, Uncle, I have never  _ hung out with Gawain.  _ It is the duty of all good Christians to educate heathens, but to unnecessarily co mingle with them can only encourage sin and corruption of the soul, which you might endeavour to remember.”

Bors, sufficiently chastised, rose from his chair. “Right, I’ll keep that in mind. Since you're so set on this, I’ll go get you materials and things for— bookmaking.”

“We should put some of those puff stickers on it,” Perceval suggested, having already elected himself art director of this project. “Maybe they make some with saints and crosses and everything.”

“Puff stickers…” repeated Galahad. His gaze was distant and he was clearly operating on some other plane of existence. “What I have in mind will make puff stickers look like child’s play.”

“Oh?” said Bors nervously.

Galahad slammed his hand on the whiteboard, which rattled. “Gentlemen. We are going to make  _ carmina figurata.” _

* * *

“I don’t understand what this is,” said Lionel, staring at the thick volume on the table in front of him. “There’s a lot going on here and I’m not really comfortable with any of it.”

“We could do a live reading. Maybe a reenactment,” suggested Gawain, flipping his copy open to a random page. Straddling the bench and thrusting out a hand, he began to read: “For the sinner who lies, or indeed stands, with another man after the hour of matins and before the hour of nones in the Northeast hallway on the day of St Michael. Thou art a slut and hath wasted the better part of the day perjuring thyself before God. God was watching. God was watching very intently as my uncle kissed thy neck in an inappropriate manner and thou saidst several words which should not be repeated by the pure of heart, except that I must for the love I bear to God. These words that thou shouldst not say are “oh,” “fuck,” “yes,” “there,” and “Lionel.” Thou shouldst never say these words again, wretched sinner. Thou shouldst take ten years of penance for thy crimes against propriety in God’s eyes and also in my eyes, which shall never recover.”

There was a lot of shocked blinking from the small assembly of friends, mainly from Lionel, who felt somewhat as though his reputation had taken a hit. “I— uh— Galahad sure does have an active imagination, doesn’t he?”

“Sorry,” said Gawain primly, “I’m not allowed to address you by name between the hours of matins and nones.”

“Come on, Gawain, you’re being distemperate—”

“No, I’m being a sinning slut.” Gawain grinned at him and didn’t seem particularly concerned with the state of his mortal soul. Glancing down at the book again, he flipped to another page. “Here, let’s try a different passage: for the sinner who lies with a married woman after the hour of matins and before the hour of nones on the steps of the Southeast stairwell on Ash Wednesday.” He paused. “This is sounding awfully specific. Is it just me or is this sounding awfully specific?”

There was some mortified muttering from the group to the end that yes, they knew, really, they had known ever since the bit about Lionel, and they really didn’t need to hear anymore. 

“Great,” said Gawain, “let’s hear some more. Maybe there’s something that isn’t about me hooking up with people in secluded hallways and later discovering that Galahad was spying on me and taking judgemental notes.”

“I mean—” Lancelot stopped himself, reconsidered his question, and then ploughed ahead out of morbid curiosity. “I mean, how many times has it happened? That’s a very thick book, it can’t just be that, right?” There was a silence. “Right?”

“Well,” said Gawain politically, “there are a lot of regions of Camelot and its environs which aren’t secluded hallways. There are the gardens, and quite a few public highways with handily sturdy architecture, and a lot of bedrooms which I must believe Galahad doesn’t have access to or this penitential would come as a boxed set. So, yeah. It can’t just be me.”

There was a silence, part horrified, part awed. Lamorak broke it by coughing skeptically. “How do you have the  _ time _ ?”

“Talent, I guess,” Gawain said modestly.

“Wait, wait,” said Laurel, holding up one hand. “I don’t know much about sex, but isn’t the point that it only goes quickly if you’re bad at it?”

“Excellent point, Lady Laurel, let's get into the mechanics. Let's do that math,” he went on, ignoring several protests that he by no means had to do that. “Yes, of course you, are correct. The talent comes not in doing so quickly but in doing it frequently, and especially the brevity of the breaks between encounters. Now, of course—”

“Please stop.”

“Yes sir,” said Gawain, and flopped back down onto the bench. “Well, this is certainly an entertaining Christmas. Has anyone managed to read the full thing yet?”

There was a general shaking of heads. 

“I didn’t even get three pages in,” Lancelot admitted. “I mean is it all— is there any of it that isn't— er, of a carnal nature? There  _ are _ other sins. I think.”

“Are there?” said Lionel, who was still somewhat distracted. “Has anyone tried any of them?”

“Yes, all of you,” Laurel said, having just recovered from her earlier venture into the conversation. “It’s called murder.”

“Wait, is... uh… is that a sin?” Lancelot asked, seeming genuinely confused. 

“I think it’s just a hobby,” said Lamorak.

“It's a lifestyle,” Gawain corrected. “Wait, is murder really not in there?” 

Lynette flipped through her copy of the book, scanning the headings. “Carnal Sins,” she read, “Carnal Sins Pt. 2. Carnal Sins Pt.3, Orkney Special. Carnal Sins and Sins Against Truth. Carnal Sins and— oh, here we go. Carnal Sins and the Delights of Bloodshed. Is that it?”

“Other than the weird bits about Saint Sebastian, yeah I think that's all it covers. Maybe this is just the first edition?” suggested Lancelot.

“No, no,” said Lynette, “I meant is the bloodshed one the one where he tells us not to murder? He says things weird. That might be it.”

“Let's see,” said Gawain, who was having a wonderful time. He flipped to the section before anyone could think to stop him and began to read aloud. “Carnal Sins and the Delights of Bloodshed. For the wretched sinner who glories in the killing of others and takes delight in the viscera resulting in a licentious manner. Oh, dear.” Despite this, he bravely forged ahead, while the subject of this section, knowing himself, turned rather pale.

“I'm sure we get the idea,” Lancelot broke in faintly. 

Gawain chose not to hear him. “To the wretched sinner who was so wickedly overcome that after the, what God and myself can only hope to be accidental, slaying of a rival in a tournament left early to comport himself with the Pagan Bastard Who Shall Not Be Named Here on the consecrated ground of the private chapel, thus also defiling the home of God. You should be deeply ashamed and must do penance for one hundred years, and perhaps drown yourself, for thou hast done great harm to God, to Yourself, and to Me for my witnessing of it. Consider also apologizing.”

There was an extremely long silence following this reading, during which Lancelot went from pale as a sheet to red as the blood which started the whole issue, and then back to pale again.

“Wait,” said Lamorak, slowly, “is he talking about when you killed Drian?”

There was silence. Lynette broke it by coughing. “Who?”

“Drian,” said Lamorak again, “my beloved brother. Do none of you remember Drian? Killed accidentally in a tournament at the Depressed Gard? It was an accident, I thought.”

“It's the Dolorous Gard,” Lancelot corrected weakly, his face hidden in his hands. 

Gawain pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I thought his name was Donor. Right, Lancelot? That fellow with the annoying ears?”

“How can someone's ears be annoying?” Laurel asked in a desperate and unfortunate attempt at deflection.

“I mean…” Lynette gave a vague gesture which indicated she could not be blamed for the joke she was about to deliver. “Have you ever met Aggravaine?”

“Donor was his  _ nickname _ ,” hissed Lamorak. “His  _ nickname.  _ And his ears were  _ fine. _ ”

“Weird nickname. Weird ears. May he rest in peace,” Gawain concluded dismissively, and opened the book again. “Ooh, I found a bit that isn’t about me. To the Wretched Sinner who Lies with a lady in the hall of her castle in front of her guards and makes Lewd suggestions to the assassins who attempt to murder him for his Sins: I say please don’t do it again.” He paused. “Who  _ is  _ this? This doesn’t sound at all familiar, and I don’t mean to brag when I say I think I’ve heard pretty much everyone’s weird adventure stories. Or been a side character.”

“Or a love interest,” Laurel noted dryly. 

Gawain disregarded this. “Well, only one way to find out. Let’s see… assassins who attempt to murder him… here we go. I say please don’t do it again. Thou shalt take one month of penance to think about your crimes against God, but other than that thou art less a sinner towards the innocent mind than your elder br— oh,  _ fuck. _ ”

Lynette burst out laughing, and Gawain, who for the first time that afternoon had actually been thrown by the content of the book, stared at the page blankly for a moment. The rest were merely confused. 

“Wait…” he said slowly, performing some rapid mental arithmetic with a mind not well-suited to the mathematical. “Does Gareth have me beat?”

“What?” said Lancelot in a somewhat strangled voice. This latest in the bevy of horrors was evidently his upper limit, and there was a broken look in his eyes.

Lynette gave a smug grin. “Yup.” 

“Did anyone see the page in the back?” said Lamorak, who was still somewhat shaken from the discovery that his brother’s death had not been as accidental as he might have thought. Still, he had a lot of brothers, and Drian had not been his favourite. “It’s just titled “Tristan.” And then it says “stop.” And after that, there’s a drawing of a dog.”

“Hm, yeah,” confirmed Gawain distantly, “it's a good dog picture. I'm fairly sure Percival drew it.”

“Who did all the drawings of St Francis in bondage?”

Gawain flipped to a random page— most of them featured tied up saints— and studied it academically. “Not Perceval. Someone with as much to make up for in depth of feeling for the subject as they do lack of skill, and a great deal more imagination than experience. So, one guess.” 

“Don’t be mean,” chided Laurel. “I think they’re well-drawn. I’m glad he’s having fun. All in all, there are worse ways of getting out all that energy. We’re all having fun, aren’t we? Kind of?”

“I’m not,” said Lamorak, “I just discovered Sir Lancelot murdered my brother and then fucked Gawain about it.”

“Well, I had fun then  _ and _ now,” remarked Gawain. “If he makes any more of these, I would love to read them. Get a regular subscription going.”

Lamorak perked up at the notion of a profit. “Do you think we could make money off of this?”

“I mean, it's practically an instruction manual. And the drawings really are quite good, though there are a few things I know personally are anatomically improbable even for me, and I am  _ quite _ flexible,” Gawain said, studying one very creatively posed tied-up saint. 

“Instruction manual…” mused Lamorak. “Instruction manual… I wonder if we could give him an instruction manual right back. On how not to be an irritating little—”

“—no need for that,” said Laurel, who quite liked Galahad. 

“We could give him instructions on how to be a better Christian,” suggested Lynette. “Maybe he just needs to love saints more. Maybe he just needs to—”

Whatever Lynette, who was not particularly considerate, thought Galahad needed to do was interrupted by the door to the small room creaking open and the figure of Aggravaine making a harried and dismal entrance. 

“Did you— did you all get this too?” he asked, desperately waving a copy of the penitential.

“Hey, Aggs,” Gawain said cheerfully. “Merry Christmas.” 

“Go to Hell,” said Aggravaine without missing a beat. “Which one of you assholes wrote a lewd polemic? Or was it an autobiography? Because there is no way Galahad wrote this. I mean, I don’t know him very well, but this is— well— it’s very detailed.”

“He's very imaginative,” Gawain said, as if it was a compliment in this situation. “I think Bors and Percival helped though. The Tristan page was telling.” 

The expression Aggravaine made was dredged up from the pits of Lucifer by utmost horror. “ _ Tristan  _ page?” he wheezed.

“Oh, have you not read it?” Gawain questioned. “I'm not surprised. It must be very dull for you, with yourself not being in at all. As the primary character I made a comprehensive study.” 

“Ah,” said Aggravaine, after a moment’s silence. His face had contorted even further. “Well. Yes. Aha. Yes. Not in it, not me.”

“No. No way,” said Gawain suspiciously.

“Good for you,” noted Laurel.

“No. Nope. I don't believe it. I need citations,” Gawain insisted. 

“Beware what you ask for,” said Lamorak, oblivious to the attempts being made to shush him, “you might find out more than you want.”

Agravaine didn’t say anything, looking as if he was regretting his choice to enter the room and even making an experimental half step backwards towards the door. Nothing came of it; Lynette was already flipping through the pages frantically, a disbelieving grin in her face.

“Oh, God, is this it? Page 134?” she asked, scanning it, eyes widening in a combination of horror and delight.

“Hng,” said Agravaine, who looked like a tragedian mask to represent the emotion of wanting to be buried alive as soon as possible. 

“Actually, nevermind,” said Gawain, who was vividly remembering the page about Gareth, “I just remembered I actually don’t want to know at all. Don’t read it. Don’t read it, Lynette—”

“Lynette can't hear you,” Lynette announced, with a triumphal smirk at managing to turn the tables on him. “To the wretched sinner who— oh wow, Aggs, to the wretched—”

“Please don't,” said Agravaine and Gawain at the same time.

She cleared her throat dramatically. “To the wretched sinner who last Pentecost just after nones-” she stopped. “It just says: While the Bible does condone the ending of quarrels and feuds, the accomplishment of such through amorous means is still sinful. Good for you, but don't do it again.” 

There was a long pause. “Wow,” said Gawain eventually. “Um. I’m glad Galahad supports your love life.”

“That's nice of him,” said Lamorak.

“Wait. It goes on,” Lynette said. “And to the other party: You are a wretched sinner and shall do ten years of penance.”

“That's not fair,” Lamorak protested, by all accounts an impolitic move. 

Lionel raised an eyebrow at him. “Does he specify what kind of penance? Actually, that’s a question that needs to be asked for all of these. Is he suggesting that I take my penance in, say, flagellation?”

“That could be fun,” Gawain said brightly. 

“Someone add that to the book,” Lynette said, rolling her eyes.

“I think it's banishment,” broke in Lancelot, who still had his head in his hands. “I think I'm just going to banish myself for one hundred years actually.” 

“Banishment to where?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “somewhere I don’t know anyone. Maybe Norway.”

“If you’re not using France,” said Lionel, “can I take France? I can have a party there with the other sinners. Maybe Gawain and I can figure out appropriate punishments.”

“Sorry.” Gawain didn’t seem very apologetic. “As king of Norway, I have to supervise the murderer who's just broken into my country. Whoever wants to can take the Orkneys, though.”

“That’s half of the problems in this book in the first place, is people taking the Orkneys,” Lynette pointed out, to collective groans of disgust. “Galahad certainly seems to have a lot of suppressed aggression about it.”

“Well,” said Gawain, sobering up for a moment from the glorious high of his own sins, “I don’t think it’s particularly suppressed. It’s good for him to get it out of his system, probably. I’m glad he’s having fun. We all have to find enjoyment in life how we can.”

“That's a very decent sentiment,” Lynette said, surprised at him. 

He shrugged. “I have those sometimes.”

It likely would have ended there, on an incongruously sweet note, had not Laurel returned to perusal while the others were speaking. 

“Hey,” she said slowly, “have any of you read the, uh… dedication?”

Six pairs of eyes swivelled back down to their books. “Written with loving chastisement,” read Lamorak, “to a sinner of the highest degree. Well, who’s that, then? It certainly isn’t Gawain. I don’t think Galahad thinks anything about Gawain lovingly.”

“Keep reading,” said Laurel, “under the drawing.”

Lamorak returned to the page. “May we find grace in our disagreements. Your brothers are still awful. Signed, Galahad.”

Silence.

“Wow,” said Gawain. “That was really sweet. They're nice kids. Anyway, you guys want to try the flagellation or—”

And that was Christmas at Camelot.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading lol not sorry for all the dumb jokes and the weirdly high level of required knowledge of medieval catholicism


End file.
